


Finwean Ladies Week 2020

by AmethystTribble



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, I have no idea where the palantir of Numenor came from and it shows, Innuendo, Let! Galadriel! Say! Fuck!, and for day two something bittersweet, earwen is the nice lady you're low-key scared of confirmed, elwing shows up for a hot second, in the first chapter these ladies are talking about sex and male genatalia, just wanted to give you a heads up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26500675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystTribble/pseuds/AmethystTribble
Summary: My entries for Finwean Ladies Week 2020. That's it, that's all there is, folks.Day 1: Miriel and Indis start a book-club, and of course they don't talk about books.Day 2: Lalwen and Findis re-invent ice cream and don't talk about everything else that happened in the First Age.Day 3: Galadriel and Aredhel have a chat on the Helcaraxe and discuss what they're going to go when they get there.Day 4: Tindomiel watches the dawn with her eyes, and watches the evening through... other means.Day 5: Earwen and Amarië play dominos and philosophize.Day 6: Prince Maglor's Wife has a life outside of him.Day 7: A short piece about the life of Suretal the Seamstress, sister of Miriel Therinde.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 25





	1. Miriel and Indis: The Tuna Ladies Book Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for all the bad innuendo X)

“But you’re not, you’re not understanding, I’m not explaining this well. Yes, it’s shorter than a recited rendition of the Cuivienyarna would be, but that’s what makes it _special._ ”

There was a grimace on Miriel’s face as if Indis’s apathy was physically paining her. Indis felt badly about it, she really did. Miriel kept waving her hands around and shaking her little ‘book’ like this was the most exciting thing to ever happen, and Indis wanted to feel it with her. If for no other reason than to move on from this topic. But she couldn’t in good conscience lie to her friend.

“I’m sorry, Miriel, but I just don’t see why I would want to recite that version to myself when I could see a loremaster perform the tale, embellishments and participation and all.”

“Arg!” Miriel cried, throwing herself back on the couch she was sitting on. 

As the other ladies laughed at Miriel to various degrees, Indis gave a small sigh of amusement. Suretal, seated next to Miriel, gave a long-suffering eyeroll and let Miriel slump against her shoulder. She very carefully maneuvered her glass of wine out of the way of any hair.

Nornolotë, in the chair between the couches, grinned impishly and plucked the book from Miriel’s hand.

She thumbed through the pages lazily, then said, “I don’t see why Rumil didn’t just record a recitation. Then maybe this tale would be more interesting, less… dry.”

“Not enough ink,” Suretal said, and though Miriel’s head instantly shot up next to her, she didn’t flinch at the movement. “A five-hundred stanza, three night recitation, with all the repetition and tangents? Rumil would have been bled dry. No, he didn’t have enough ink. But one day… one day there will be.”

Indis couldn’t help copying the small smile that came to Suretal’s face. Yes, yes, one day soon there would be ink and cloth, paper and clay, songs and food and shelter and happiness for them all for all their days. They were still building now, the palace upon Tuna that they were drinking and eating in was only half built. But one day…

“That was only half the point!” Miriel said, recapturing Indis’s attention. “That wasn’t why- Well, yes, there wasn’t enough ink, but that’s not the point of _The Manuscript of the Cuivienyara_. The point is that there _aren’t_ embellishments, it’s just the tale told in it’s basest form, this version contains what most people agree on as the important parts of the story. A version that everyone can use. The size of the tale isn’t as important as the usage.”

“Miriel,” Wailima cut in, smirking over the rim of her glass, “You and Finwë aren’t married yet, you don’t get to talk about the value of size versus usage.”

Indis felt her face flush as she giggled against her will, while Nornolotë screamed with laughter and Suretal choked on her drink. Miriel looked as if someone had painted her in blush, her hand clapped over her mouth in horror. 

“Your Majesty,” she hissed, sounding thoroughly scandalized. “You can’t just- you can’t just say things like that.”

“Oh, I have to agree with Miriel. Please don’t talk about my brother like that,” Indis said, but Wailima just patted her hand in consolation and made no promises.

“Why shouldn’t she?” Nornolotë said, still kicking her legs in amusement, “I think Her Majesty and I need to sit down and compare notes on our husbands’ various… virtues.”

Nornolotë snorted the last word and Suretal buried her face in Miriel’s hair. 

“Oh, anytime, Mistress Nornolotë, anytime,” Wailima said smoothly, taking a demure sip of her wine. “I would love to hear about Master Mahtan’s hammer.”

“Oh my,” Indis muttered, trying to choke down a drink to hopefully quell her laughter.

“And I _need_ to know about His Majesty’s scepter!” Nornolotë screamed, and Miriel and Suretal both followed her with yells. When Indis looked at them, there were tears of laughter streaming down Suretal’s face, while Miriel looked close to tears for a different reason. Indis wanted to lend her a hand, wanted to save her from the inevitable teasing about Finwë that would come.

“Please, please,” Indis begged. “Ladies, my poor sensibilities can’t take much more of this.”

“Your sensibilities?” Wailima asked, and Indis already knew that she had made a mistake. “Indis, darling, I’ve read your poetry. Your sensibilities are far from delicate, unless, of course, you prefer to keep private your work with… the quill.”

Nornolotë’s laughter bounced off all the walls, and Indis was sure people could hear them elsewhere. Why, Ingwë and Finwë could probably hear them right now, were probably wondering what was so funny. Indis could only beg Vana that they did not come looking.

“Do you- do you think,” Suretal gasped around her laughs, “that we should finally introduce Indis to Rumil and see if she’s interested in that quill. Then she can report back to us.”

Indis groaned and leaned back into the pillows. She had well and truly lost this. As Nornolotë and Suretal started planning an imaginary courtship between her and Master Rumil, Indis knew she only had once recourse to action. She could only hope Miriel forgave her.

“I do believe it is Miriel who champion’s Master Rumil’s skill with the quill,” Indis said, and suddenly Miriel was staring at her like she was a monster while Suretal, Nornolotë, and Wailima looked positively delighted. “To say nothing of Finwë’s scepter. We will have to know if that should be an argument in favor him being _High King_.”

Everything exploded around Indis into more laughter and chatter, just egged on by Miriel’s loud, embarrassed attempts to stop it. Master Rumil’s book had been abandoned on the floor next to Nornolotë. Indis knew that she should retrieve it, maybe try to talk about _The Manuscript of the Cuivienyarna_ again, as they had ostensibly gathered to do. 

Instead, Indis took another sip of her wine and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they're off folks! I'm really excited for this Finwean Ladies Week, and I had a blast writing this small thing in particular. I just thinks it's fun, let them have fun!
> 
> Anyway thank you for reading, and I hope you liked it, and will read/like the others! And thank you again so much for any comments and or kudos you might feel inclined to leave!!


	2. Lalwen & Findis: And There Will be Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lalwen eats ice cream with her sister and considers their relationship

“I’ll admit,” Findis said around hesitant but pleased bites, “this is good. Very clever of the Edain, I’m thoroughly impressed.”

“Right?” Lalwen said back, then took a massive bite of her own ice cream, just savoring the flavors of honey and raspberry for a moment. She’d missed ice cream since her re-embodiment. Nothing so sweet and cold, so refreshing and satisfying had been invented in Valinor in the intervening years since her departure. There had been no supplement for Lalwen’s cravings, which meant that she had to take matters into her own hands.

Which, as always, meant that she went to talk to the smartest person she knew.

They’d gone through their routine, after that, rusty and a little awkward, but familiar.

Findis had listened to Lalwen’s request- ice cream in Valinor- with her hands on her hips, then explained in her long-winded fashion that she was a theologian and a composer, not a chef and not someone who dealt with compounds. _How am I supposed to make you ‘ice cream’? I can’t even make iced drinks, Lalwendë!_

Then Findis had sighed and reached for her address book, looking for someone, anyone, in her acquaintance that could fulfill Lalwen’s desire.

That was the way it had always been since they were little girls. Lalwen had a problem or want or disaster or fancy, and Findis found a way to make it work. When they were young, Lalwen supposed it was a system built on her own selfishness; her childhood assurance that her big sister could do anything and then taking full advantage of it. 

When they became older, though, it grew into a game. Findis pretended she didn’t love finding solutions to petty problems- vexed by a million metaphysical and unanswerable questions as Findis had always been- and Lalwen made up new schemes as an excuse to spend time with her sister who was always stuck in her own head.

Their relationship had operated the same way for thousands of years.

Right up until Lalwen asked her sister to come across the sea with her, and Findis refused.

And now, Lalwen supposed she was just testing these new waters- heh, ‘waters’, after water had been what separated them. There was a lot more than an ocean between them now. There was Fingolfin and Finarfin, there was Feanor- there had always been Feanor- but more importantly, there was Sindarin, there was swords, there was the Doom, there was the Edain and the building and the losing and the separation, there was several hundred years, and there was death.

Findis had questions about the Hall of Mandos, Lalwen could tell, but her decorum was holding her back. Once upon a time, Lalwen might trample right over that, might broach the subject herself, might try to pull her sister forward and along as she always had. But Lalwen now knew that Findis had a line she couldn’t bully her over, and that was… New. Scary. 

Lalwen was starting to realize that she had lines too, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to share the Halls with anyone. 

Ice cream, though, was safe. 

“We should try different flavors next time,” Lalwen said. “Now that we have proof of concept, let’s take advantage of Valinor’s bounty.”

When she and Fingolfin had wanted desperately to avoid talking about corpses, they had bemoaned over and over again that the truly hard thing about the Helcaraxë and Beleriand was the more limited food options. The lack of coffee, honestly, had been the worst, but Lalwen could never have guessed how much she would crave _nutmeg_ of all things. One of the first things she had done after rembodiement was eat a whole jar of orange marmalade with her mother.

“Blueberry?” Findis proposed, but Lalwen shook her head. You could find blueberries easily in Hithlum.

“I’m thinking something like… chocolate! And let’s throw mint or saffron on it.”

“That sounds disgusting,” Findis told her flatly.

Lalwen just laughed. 

“You’ll still help me, though?” Lalwen said, though it didn’t come out as steady as she had hoped. There was a small trill of anxiety in her chest that she didn’t want to name. Her smile was failing as Findis considered her for a long moment.

Then she sighed and Lalwen’s heart soared.

“We’re not serving it to mother until it’s been taste-tested, and you bear all blame for whatever goes wrong,” Findis told her sternly, before a small smile teased across her normally grim lips. “I’m sure Arakano would be more than willing to be involved with our experiments.”

Lalwen threw her head back as she laughed loudly. Argon had spoken often about being ‘cheated’ in regards to Beleriand. She was sure he’d love to get a taste.

“This is a great plan!” she declared, just as she had when she and Findis snuck into Feanor’s room when they were girls and just as she had when she and Fingon had gone over siege tactics. 

Findis turned her head away as if she was very much above it all, like she did when she was trying not to cry when Finarfin broke her favorite doll and like she did when Lalwen walked away from her to journey across the world.

_The more things change,_ Lalwen thought as she took another bite of her ice cream, _the more they stay the same._

And though that familiarity tasted sweet, it was also a little cold these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmmmmmmm. Not sure I like the ending of this one. I tinkered around with that last line a lot, or added another, but nothing hit as hard. Still- and the point was in part that they never actually talked about anything- I'm not sure I'm still entirely comfortable with that. Oh well. 
> 
> I've never written Lalwen before. I really enjoyed it! If you did to, any comment and/or kudos you want to leave will be much appreciated, but thank you for reading either way!


	3. Aredhel & Galadriel: Smoke, Fog, and Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galadriel and Aredhel have a chat on the Helcaraxe about what they're going to do when they get there.

Even after the arm pulled Artanis up to keep her from falling, it did not let go. Irissë was stuck to her side now, leaning in close and mingling their furs. Artanis could feel the heat coming off her, colder than she would like but still a welcome relief. 

It took all of Artanis’s carefully held pride- the only real thing protecting her from the wind and ice- to try to shrug Irissë off.

But she didn’t let go.

“Bloody nightmare,” Irissë said in an insufferably chipper voice. “No, I don’t like this at all. Gonna be honest, I thought this would be the same as mountain climbing with Curufinwë, and I- I was _wrong._ Very wrong!”

“You’re wasting your breath talking,” Artanis gasped out, trudging along in snow up to her knees. 

What a horrible joke, scolding Irissë for ‘wasting breath’, like it wasn’t Artanis who could barely keep on her feet, lungs burning, fingers hard to bend, and face numb. Like Irissë wasn’t holding her up, pulling her along for just that _little while longer_ before they made camp. But, of course, it wasn’t a little while. It would probably be hours yet given her luck, and Artanis was failing. 

“I have to talk, though,” Irissë said, and all Artanis heard was, _You have to keep talking_. “I’ll go mad if I don’t, and my brothers and father are sick of me.” _You’ll stop walking if I don’t distract you, and your family can’t take anymore heartbreak._

Artanis would hate her if she had the energy too. 

“How can you say that name?” she said instead, because Irissë was _right_ unfortunately, and Artanis didn’t enjoy it when other people were right at her expense, but she wasn’t going to curse them for it either. She wasn’t _Curufinwë._

“Whose name?”

“Our half-cousin.”

“Well, that’s Curvo’s name, isn’t it?” Irissë said. 

Artanis couldn’t look at her face, because turning her head and wasting any energy would be a grave error. But she would have liked to be able to look into Irissë’s eyes right now. She would like to see if there was sorrow or pain or anger or betrayal or if that blaise tone of voice was real.

“I just can’t- can’t-” Artanis paused as they crested a laughably small hill that made her want to lie down and never get up again, then tried once more to make the words come out without fainting in the process. “Can’t imagine thinking about them like that.”

“Like what?” Irissë asked, even though Artanis would bet all her furs that she knew damn well what was being said. She was just trying to coax Artanis into thinking and moving and distracting herself more. 

“Like they didn’t betray us,” Artanis said. She wished the words had been yelled or hissed, but she just didn’t have the breath for it. Instead, her proclamation came out hollow, like she was discussing the tides or making a passing comment about the engagement of people she only sort of knew. Like her anger over the whole affair wasn’t the primary thing keeping her warm during the nights.

But her words must have struck some chord, because Irissë went quiet for a hot- ha! As if anything, not even the bloody flames, could be described as _hot_ \- moment.

Then she quietly said, “We don’t know that for certain.”

Oh, ho, ho, Artanis knew it for certain. 

Their half-uncle had torched the boats and left them behind, and she was sure their half-cousins had helped the madman do it.

She had to know. To keep walking, she had to know that they betrayed them. To keep certain that she made the right choice, that they weren’t all heinous fools, Artanis knew that Feanor’s host set the ships alight. She had to, because the other option was-

“Would you really rather them be _dead_ than have betrayed us?” Artanis sneered.

“Maybe,” Irissë snapped back, surprising Artanis so much her gaze jerked up from her feet and the blank white canvas below. Her head instantly fell back down, but she couldn’t hide her shock.

“Why? Why- What will you do if they are dead?”

Irissë shuddered against her side.

“I don’t know. Cry.”

“And if they aren’t dead?”

“Still cry, probably.” Irissë drew in a deep breath that struck Artanis as a stupid move. The air was just gone again when she sighed out, and the movement of drawing it in was an extra strain. But Artanis could feel the sudden sorrow drifting off her cousin, and it made her do something equally stupid. She reached out for Irissë with her mind.

Irissë greeted Artanis, but pushed her back out again. 

Instead, she explained herself verbally.

“I don’t know, Artanis. I just… I feel like if we find them dead, then we will have already lost and this whole thing will be worthless. But if we find them alive, then they will have not wanted us, and then what do we do? Fight? I won’t do it, which means this whole journey is still worthless.”

Artanis couldn’t think of anything good to say to that as they plodded along for a long time. Well, nothing that wasn’t viscerally angry and unhelpful. Instead, they lapsed into silence, holding on to one another but suffering separately. It seemed as if Irissë was being swallowed up by her sorrow, while Artanis had forgotten what emotions but anger and exhaustion felt like. One was drowning and one was burning up. 

Doused a little by Irissë, though, Artanis could feel- could remember again why… 

She could offer a little warmth.

“It doesn’t matter if Curufinwë and the rest are still alive,” Artanis gasped out, and she felt how she’d grabbed Irissë’s attention from her shifting. “Because- because you and I are going to build a city. And it doesn’t matter if they’re there or not, because we are going to build it just- just for us. Our city. No stupid boys allowed, no brothers or cousins.”

Irissë actually laughed, and Artanis couldn’t even get mad at her for wasting breath.

“Can’t Aunt Lalwen come?”

“Of course. She can build- plan all the building of the city, put those fine Noldorin skills of hers to work. And I’ll rule it. I’m gonna make all the laws, direct all the people, I’m going to- I’m going to be so good at it, just you wait. They’ll love me. And they’ll have all the time in the world to love me, because of you. Because Irissë is going to be on the walls, guarding us all and keeping us standing.”

Irissë huffed, a slightly embarrassed noise that Artanis treasured. Because it actually sounded happy. 

“They’ll call me the White,” Irissë said, in a soft, wet voice. “The White because when I slay Morgoth’s beasts, it will be done so gracefully I will never muss my clothes.”

“Irissë the White,” Artanis agreed, “and what will they call me?”

“Why, obviously it will be Artanis the Enduring,” Irissë said, and she forcefully Artanis dragged closer to her side. Then Artanis felt a sudden, sharp slap to her hip that made her jerk up. “Because look! You’ve made it through the day admirably!”

There in the distance, was a bright, flickering flame, around which stood people beginning to make camp. 

Slumping further onto Irissë’s shoulder, tears welled in Artanis’s eyes.

“Oh, _thank_ fuck!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one I like. I've been toying with this conversation for a long time, so I'm glad it's finally been solidified.
> 
> I hope you liked it too!!


	4. Tindomiel: The Seer of Numenor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tindomiel watches the dawn with her own eyes, and she watches the evening through other means.

Her silver aunt didn’t seem to be listening. Her gaze looked nearly vacant, and for all that she didn’t respond, she might have been as deaf to whatever words were being spoken as Tindomiel was. It ripped at Tindimiel’s heart to see her like that, but moreso to watch Arwen’s increasingly desperate pleas to her mother.

“Oh, Undomiel,” Tindomiel whispered, aching- and not for the first time- to reach through the glass.

“Who are you spying on now?” Vardamir’s voice suddenly came from over her shoulder, and Tindomiel startled. She rapidly sat up straight in her chair, twisting around and banging her knees on the table in the process. She hadn’t even gotten a proper look at her brother when there was a dull, terror-inducing _thud._

“Shit,” she cursed, turning back around and grasping for her palantir before it could tumble off the table.

Tindomiel didn’t know if the fall would really break it, but she wasn’t willing to try and find out. Father would never forgive her if she ruined one of his keepsakes from the sons of Feanor. Beyond that, she could not begin to guess where she’d find another one to continue her scrying with. 

Carefully cradling the palantir in her arms, Tindomiel turned glare at Vardamir, who looked far too smug for her taste.

“Look what you almost made me do!” she snapped.

He didn’t look ruffled at her ire, though, merely coming up to loom behind her and ruffle her hair.

“Now, now, all’s well that ends well. Tell me what you’ve seen. Anything actually useful yet?”

Tindomiel sniffed, placing the palantir back on its stand and fighting the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

“Everything I see is useful, I’ll have you know. It’s not my fault you’re too simple to understand that.”

“Oh, _yes_ , I’m completely sure you seeing whatever Uncle Elrond eats for breakfast millenia from now will be essential to my reign and our lifetimes.”

“You’re heinous,” Tindomiel told him, hovering her hands over the palantir and trying to conjure the images again. Her physical body didn’t really help with the scrying, but the movement made her feel more grounded and focused as she stretched her mind and spirit. 

It was like… dipping her foot in an ocean. Except her foot was her very being, the ocean was an endless cosmos, and that starry void was filled with lives that were all screaming and clamoring and frothing. It was more like navigating in a hurricane than sailing on a sunny day. 

Tindomiel took her boat out, though, trying to traverse the small Arda in the palantir as her grandfather did the stars.

It was always easier to get back to where she was before, rather than charting a new course.

Arwen at her mother’s bedside returned.

“Undomiel, again?” Vardamir asked, leaning over her shoulder. That dismissive edge to his voice had lessened, Tindomiel noted, pulling back to the real world with the image she’d reeled in safely captured.

“I think something terrible has happened to her mother,” she said, looking at her silver aunt’s gaunt face. Tindomiel longed to know who she truly was, but she hadn’t yet been able to make her visions speak to her, nor find her aunt- and, consequently, her name- in the cosmos. 

“Should we tell Uncle?” 

Vardamir’s voice sounded so strained, so earnest. It hurt Tindomiel. Her brother was not fit for seerwork; he was always trying to find solutions and reach out hands and apply what he learned. Vardamir didn’t understand that the purpose of futuresight was not a matter of aversion, but knowledge and peace. One couldn’t change the song. Only understand it. 

And it was beautiful, but maddening. 

Tindomiel feared she would go mad before she had even truly mastered the abilities she’d been gifted with.

But if she told Vardamir that, he would grow frightened for her sake, and he would bar her from her work and find a way to smash the palantir. He would be a good king, and he was a kind brother, but this was not a battle he could understand. Or win.

So instead of explaining all that, Tindomiel said, “And tell him what? That millenia from now something that I don’t truly understand will hurt his wife? No, he will always be looking over his shoulder. It might ruin their marriage before they even meet!”

Vardamir made a noise in his throat that meant he understood but did not like the situation one bit.

“Bleh,” he dismissed it all, “Tell me something more positive. Show me my heir! Halwen and I are still looking for names, see if you can show me some quality of my child to make it easier.”

“Urg! I told you, it’s hard when I don’t know the name, and the baby’s blood is further away from mine, it leaves a vaguer trail than you boys.”

Tindomiel had been telling her brothers their futures for years. Manwendil had still not forgiven her for telling him he would marry a blond, after the series of disastrous relationships that had brought about. 

“And yet you found Undomiel,” Vardamir teased, “who hasn’t been born and won’t be for ages, who’s name you didn’t know, and who is as far away from you bloodwise as my child.”

Tindomiel turned back to the palantir, and instead of growing annoyed with Vardamir, ran a finger down the smooth surface that depicted Arwen’s face. She’d left her mother’s room, but she was crying now. If Tindomiel could have any wish granted, it would be the power to tell the girl, _Don’t cry, it will all be well. In the end, it will all be well, Queen of Men._

But Tindomiel didn’t have the power for that. 

Not yet.

In the meantime, she heaved a sigh at Vardamir.

“Arwen Undomiel is different. We are connected more deeply than we are with any other people that have lived, will live, or are living. I would have found her even if I tried to fight my vision. I’m sure of it. I know her as well as if she were my sister. I love her like the twin of my soul. And I like her better than _you_ , too.”  
Vardamir just laughed. 

“Sure, sure,” he said, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. “Good luck with your pointless visions, and remember that dinner is at the seventh bell. If you make Halwen wait to eat again, I’m not saving you.”

Tindomiel rolled her eyes.

But as her brother walked away and she started to dip deeper into the palantir to look for something a little closer to home, she called back at him, “I’ll look for names, but you better have named that child after me for this!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones my favorite, but I'm slightly concerned that I've written two pics now where Arwen gets low-key haunted by an ancestor.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Earwen and Amarië: The Boneyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earwen and Amarie play dominos and philosophize.

Amarië bit her lip, carefully placing down the game piece, connecting the four dots on one side to another piece’s four dots. The three on the other side of her piece should- if she’d counted right and was remembering the rules correctly and wasn’t about to make a fool of herself- add up to give her, “Ten points?”

“Precisely,” Queen Earwen crooned, clapping her hands together in delight. She then proceeded to immediately connect one of her pieces with another domino’s one, adding six more points to the game to make…

“And that’s fifteen for me!”

Amarië pressed her lips together, gathered all her hard-won serenity around her like a cloak, and resisted the urge to flip the table.

“Congratulations,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, it was nothing dear. Besides, the game’s hardly over, there’s still quite a bit of time for the tides to change. It’s also your turn.”

Amarie did not like the way Queen Earwen was smiling at her. In fact, it made her distinctly uncomfortable, looking at that rigid mask of polite pleasure. Just around the edges of her lips and in her narrowed eyes was something sharper. 

As Amarie picked up the only domino she could play- a three dot one with five on the other side- she pouted.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Queen Earwen gave a soft, sweet chuckle, then immediately used the horizontal, double-two domino to place down her two-three and give herself twenty points.

Amarie drew in a long, slow breath.

“A little bit,” Queen Earwen said. “But it’s not as much as the joy I get from teaching you and sharing a game dear to my heart. And think of all the fun we’ll have once you- Well, once…”

“Once I actually understand how to play this game with any level of skill?”

“Yes, precisely!”

Amarie snorted, and she wasn’t sure if it was out of frustration or amusement. She tried to keep good spirits about her as she placed another piece down and didn’t score again. Queen Earwen was smiling, after all, and though Amarië was sure that was something she did often, there was… a level of satisfaction in seeing it.

Pity and loneliness had been what called her to Aqualondë, and pity and loneliness were what Amarië had expected to find. But Queen Earwen was as lively as she ever was before the Darkening, and now that the sun illuminated their lands, she seemed much recovered from her sorrow caused by… that time. 

Amarië had to seriously consider that she was the one plagued by self-pity and lingering pain- both the angry and the sad. Earwen certainly didn’t seem to be; she wasn’t the lady whose family was torn asunder that Amarië had thought to comfort. It had been a bit much, probably, to think so highly of her own presence. And rude to discount Earwen’s true bearing and manner when trying to determine her present happiness, relying instead on… literary ideals of what the lady whose children had left, whose husband was governing another people in another city, whose kin had slaughtered kin on the very beaches the window they looked out of must be feeling.

But all that self-reflection just meant that Amarië had been quite foolish and prideful- as her reflection often showed her- and now she was left feeling useless.

And bad at dominos. 

She went to place another piece down, then realized that none of her dots could connect to the playable dots in the game at present. 

“Drat,” she whispered, thinking of a much stronger word.

Amarië reached for the pile of excess pieces, hoping to be swiftly released from this new torture.

But alas! A one and a four. 

She tried again. This one she could make work, a two and six. Now… just where to put the bloody thing to either make her own game better or Queen Earwen’s harder.

“They call it the boneyard, you know,” Queen Earwen said, thoroughly disrupting her concentration. At Amarië’s questioning stare, Earwen nodded to the excess pile, and said, “The boneyard. It’s called that because the pieces are bone white, and in the old days, across the sea, they were even occasionally made of bones.”

“That’s quite… morbid,” Amarie said, wondering if this was a new tactic to throw her off.

Queen Earwen didn’t needle her, though, as Amarië carefully set her piece down on the other side of the double-two. She merely looked towards the sea and hummed.

“Is it? I suppose I would have agreed with you, not too long ago. But now I have to wonder… What is all of Arda, but a boneyard? Our land is built upon the bones of the one Morgoth destroyed. We’ve built tools and jewelry and furniture from bone for ages, and never wholly abandoned the practice as uncivilized, because why would we? What is more civilized than nature? Even that beach is partly made of bone meal. It makes up everything. Should we be scared? No, I don’t think so. Bodies die and the spirit lives on and the bone becomes nourishment for the earth. And in the end we all return to the same place, both our spirits and bodies.”

Earwen placed her last domino down on the board, and even without counting the final points, they both knew that she’d one. She swept all the pieces together. When Amarië looked up, Queen Earwen was smiling.

“To the bone pile,” she whispered, giving her words a wobbly lilt like it was the end of a scary story.

Amarie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, shocked at her amusement over something so... well, it was a little frightening.

“There now! That was a very good first attempt, darling, I commend you. Before we try again, though, I have to ask. Do you feel a little bit better?”

“Better?” Amarie asked, blinking in surprise.

Queen Earwen chuckled.

“Yes, better,” she said, and that sly grin and that foxy gaze returned as she winked, “I hope you’re not quite so worried that I’m about to fall into pieces like a boneyard at the slightest bad wind?”

Amarië felt her face grow flamingly hot, and conceded to having fumbled two battles. Drat. She hated losing.

But she liked the feeling of the sun on her face and the smell of the sea and the steady chill of the bone pieces in her hand, and she liked Earwen’s musing. There were… people discarded into the bone pile, and that was why Amarië was here in the first place. But that did not make them unwhole. The pieces to the side- the East- would be dragged back into their game eventually.

In the meantime, they would play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea what on earth Earwen was talking about the first time I wrote that speech, and it wasn't until 30 min ago that I figured it out and fixed it. I am liking this Telerin philosophy, though, I'd love to try something about the different school's of Elvish thought.
> 
> Also, I've never posted anything that didn't have italics before, but Amarie is just that calm, and that's nice.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Original Characters: The Wife of Prince Maglor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ravennië has a life.

They called her ‘wise’ for staying behind in Valinor, years later. There were whispers that she had some foresight, or was uniquely clever like her mother-in-law, or that she simply had a steady, good soul. Students would come up to her and ask how she knew that returning to Beleriand would be such a disaster. How she knew how far her husband would fall, and how she knew to leave him sooner rather than later. People also said it was tragic that one such as she- so talented, so lovely, so _wise_ \- was married to one such as him.

But _she_ had never thought about herself, about Maglor, about everything in between and everything after like that.

She wasn’t wise like Nerdanel or gifted with foresight like her king, and she sure as the stars wasn’t a better person than the people who left just for staying.

Ravennië just had a _life._

Was that so strange? She was starting to worry it was.

To have something she loved more than her husband. To have a place in the world she cherished more than adventure. To prefer her own beating heart to revenge for the dead.

Perhaps she was selfish. 

But Ravennië had students- younger students, especially, had been on her mind- that she didn’t want to leave during this juncture in their studies. And she was working on an operetta, she felt like she was really getting somewhere with it, and months of travel would be a nightmare. And her sister-in-law was going to have a baby soon, she couldn’t meet a baby if she was across the sea. And Macalaurë hadn’t even been at the school in years, he’d been away with his father, and Ravennië had understood it at the time, but if he left again it wasn’t a big deal, but the entire infrastructure on their institution would fall apart without her-

And there had been a lot of reasons.

A lot of… petty, small reasons. 

They weren’t even excuses, Ravennië would feel comfortable being a coward. But a blind fool… 

The Darkening, the regicide, the Exile, she hadn’t been taking it seriously. She thought it would be over soon enough. She thought Macalaurë would be home soon enough, after his father had built his kingdom. She thought everyone would be okay and happy again.

Ravennië hadn’t thought _anyone_ would die.

The Kinslaying was the first shock, and then they just kept coming. 

All the while, she kept her head down. Ravennië was teaching less students in those days, but there were still some. Some of the children had been nearing but not quite at their majority when everything changed, and they chose to keep at their studies while their parents went across the sea. Ravennië supposed she was something of a mother to some of them now. It wasn’t a role she asked for, but it kept her busy. 

And there were new songs to compose, always more songs. 

Some were sad, some were silly, some weren’t worth letting see the light of day. There were a lot of feelings worth expressing, Ravennië was learning, some she had never felt before. Her art was… raw, but worthwhile. After a few drafts and re-writes and little distance, that was. It made performing for a crowd with equally jumbled feelings all the more rewarding, especially when Lady Anairë cried. 

She watched her niece grow-up, and the girl was very clever with the flute. Her brother and his wife moved the whole family back to Noldorin lands, away from the blood-soaked beaches of Aqualondë. It was good for her parents, helped them ignore that Ravennië’s other brother was gone and no word was coming home.

Ravennië also joined a few groups petitioning the Valar to reopen Valinor, at least to letters or any news at all or perhaps just the children born in the other land. Her sister-in-law had strong feelings about the Sindar having a new invitation extended to them, especially after Melian returned to Aman with the first word in centuries. They said refugees should be brought back, the ones with no sins and- Ravennië felt strongly about- the ones who hadn’t known what they were getting into.

She tried very hard not to think about Macalaurë during all that, because if she entertained her hope of his return, Ravennië knew she would disappoint herself.

They assembled a host, eventually, after those two tears and salt-spray soaked children washed up, screaming and sobbing and begging with all their hearts. 

War, Ravennië believed, wasn’t really a part of her life. She wasn’t built for it. This time, she tried to take it seriously, though. Bandages were rolled, healing songs were bottled, food rations were organized. And when that raw and wretched Sindarin princess knocked on her door, Ravennië poured tea.

“You were right to leave him,” Elwing hissed.

All Ravennië could tell her was, “Actually, he left me.”

He had a long time ago, when he chose his father and his family, and Ravennië chose herself. She chose her life, her ambitions, her home. 

_I’m not great at playing accompaniment_ , Ravennië had told Macalaurë once, a warning to both herself and him. When you stood next to a prodigy, second chair was inevitable, but in the end… Macalaurë followed other people’s tunes better than he made his own, it seemed.

And Ravennië still felt his absence like a cavern in her chest, but she could live without him.

It was a beautiful life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this five min ago, and it turned out better than expected, but I have no objectivity yet so *shrugs*.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	7. On Suretal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miriel's sister says her piece about her life.

Miriel was a little girl, and Suretal was only a bit bigger when they met. They’d never been quite sure of the age difference, too young and time too nebulous then to bother keeping track when the people who would have known for certain disappeared. Suretal had only known that the silver-haired girl was small, and she might run faster but she screamed louder, and it was her duty to pull the girl around her age into the bushes. Miriel had wailed and spit and bit at her hand, but Suretal kept her quiet and pinned while the dark ones prowled. 

Then the slaughter dispersed a little and warriors from a neighboring camp came too late.

They hadn’t even known one another’s names, but they held hands as they were rescued and fed. They were washed together- their families’ blood scrubbed from their faces and hair- shepherded along to the next camp together, and they went to sleep together. The next morning, Suretal woke up to the little silver-haired girl staring at her, and she said, “My names Mirë.”

“Surië.”

As they were shuffled around between the people and houses that cared for children like them- orphaned children, lost children, children whose parents’ fate no one spoke of- they gripped each other’s hands tight and would not let go, no matter that two children were harder to place than one. Suretal knew that their refusal to be separated made some think they were kin, though their looks could not have been more different. Cousins, they were often mistaken for. But no. 

Suretal had never been brave, so she never spoke such things aloud, but Miriel wasn’t afraid. Or timid. Or hesitant about such things. She just came to the conclusion and declared for all the world that, “We’re sisters.” 

And Suretal had cried and cried, not because she was happy and not because she was sad, but because things were so different. That night, though, she was the one who dragged Miriel out to the dying embers of the fire and dropped a stone in her hands. It was Suretal who held her hand over the coals until they both bled. It was Suretal who renamed Mirë the Orphan, “Miriel.”

It took Miriel many weeks of contemplation before she renamed Surië the Orphan, “Suretal.”

And then there was nothing anyone could say about them being separated, because just like the Unbegotten who woke up under the stars as one and named each other, Miriel and Suretal had claimed one another. It was a sacred and ancient bond that came from giving someone their name, and such things meant more than blood. They had promised each other that they would always be together, that they would never leave each other’s confidence and trust, even as their lives grew.

Suretal followed Miriel across the sea, even though she wasn’t as enchanted with Finwë’s stories.

She stitched and embroidered and weaved and moved her fingers like a spider’s as Miriel worked on the other end of their projects until they were both sore and bleeding.

They dyed colors for the first time together, laughing and filthy. 

On the day of Miriel’s wedding, Suretal fixed her hair and she arranged the dress they made together and she stood for her family.

She was the first one Miriel told about Feänaró. Not Finwë. Not Indis. Not even the midwife, it was Suretal who she told her suspicions too. It was Suretal who held her while that boy came into the world, and it was Suretal who supported Miriel as they took her to the Gardens of Lorien. 

She and Finwë wept together, when Miriel’s grasp went limp in their hands.

And Suretal had never despised anyone before, but she hated, hated, _hated_ Finwë- her friend, her brother, her king- when he married Indis. And she hated, hated, _hated_ Indis- her friend, her confidant, her… queen- for the part she played in putting that statute in place. And Suretal _hated_ , _hated_ , _hated_ Miriel when she chose not to come home.

She had never been one to scream and rage and throw fits- that had always been Miriel- but everything around Miriel’s death made her want. Suretal had laid up late at night and gotten the wild hare to take her nephew and disappear. But that was anger speaking, and the impulse passed. The grief lingered, but Suretal got back to her guild, and her work, and to visiting Feänaró whenever she had the chance.

The boy picked up on the anger she tried to swallow and bury, and Suretal regretted that. 

They smiled, though, when she taught him how to stitch his clothes back up, and Feänaró had Miriel’s smile. He had her clever mind, too, and that tenacity. Not to mention, the penchant for picking up family in the oddest of places. The friends he kept, the mentors he heeded, that wife- that Suretal was surprised to find she approved of, because she had thought no one would ever be good enough for Miriel’s boy- the many children… 

It never made things wholly right between him and Finwë- and Indis- and Suretal didn’t know what advice to give.

He was near as lonely as a pair of orphan girls who renamed each other. Suretal wished Feänaró had found someone brave enough to rename him or the strength himself to let the old names go. There would be something lovely in Miriel’s son letting go of the past’s grief to make himself something new. Suretal never would have resented that. She didn’t think Miriel would have either.

But he didn’t, and she would lament that and his admirable but lacking skill with thread in the same breath, and settle for him being happy. 

Feänaró had seemed happy, passionate but happy. But she supposed that Miriel had seemed too alive to ever die, let alone want to say dead. Suretal hadn’t thought there was anything particularly odd about his desire to leave Valinor. She hadn’t wanted to be there since Miriel died and the sweet fruit they were promised turned to ash in her mouth. It was an easy choice to go, even before Finwë…

Suretal regretted the bad air that had been between them for so long.

There was nothing she could do about it, though, but follow his son. Miriel’s son. The little orphan boy she hadn’t been able to hide from the dark, scary things or rename. Feänaró burned, just as surely as Suretal and burned Miriel’s new name into her flesh. 

She hadn’t thought, she had never thought him… was she so blind to Miriel’s boy that she missed…

He was dead before Suretal had to face him and his most heinous actions, and for that, a small part of her was grateful. 

Beneath the insatiable grief, that was.

Suretal didn’t scream or yell or throw a fit. She didn’t swear oaths or burn things. She didn’t even cry too much for Feänaró. Instead, Suretal swallowed her hysteria that was her life now, closed her mind against the nightmares of the old days and the dark ones, and held the boys one by one. Then she followed the second one to the frigid north and clothed his warriors. It was a droll, hard life, but so had been finding a useful place for herself in a camp that hadn’t been their own, and the Journey, and making Valinor great, and some days so was life after Miriel. 

She didn’t mind it, especially when the second boy sang and his soul sounded a little bit like Miriel, like Finwë, like Feänaró.

Then the Gap fell, and Suretal fell with it. She supposed her luck had run out. She wasn’t small enough to hide in the quiet places anymore. At least she died fast; her parents, Miriel, they hadn’t gotten that. Still… it hurt.

She didn’t have the time to mourn herself for too long, though.

Suretal woke up in familiar arms, and Miriel said, “Surië.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all folks!
> 
> I chose to do Suretal for freeform because... Hell, I've had her in life 3 or 4 fits now, it was hightime I solidified who she was, for my own sake as much as any elves. But if you still liked this, I'm really glad and would love to hear about it! 
> 
> Thank you so for for reading my ficlets during Finwean Ladies Week!


End file.
